Read our current issue, below. Read Light‘s poems of the week
photo: Karen C. Craft
by Edmund Conti
Melania Trump’s parents become citizens.
Chain migration is such a mistake.
The concept is evil and bad,
and it gives me a huge stomachache.
I now have the in-laws. So sad!
by Julia Griffin
“Hamza bin Laden, the son of the late al-Qaida leader, has married the daughter of Mohammed Atta, the lead hijacker in the 9/11 terror attacks, according to his family.” — The Guardian
Gather blooms from every garden!
Let the vests be richly styled!
For the offspring of bin Laden
Weds Mohammed Atta’s child.
Toast the harmony symbolic
Of the vessel and the heir!
Raise a glass (non-alcoholic)
To this devastating pair:
Handsome Hamza, glowing gently
With his father’s scarlet fame,
And a girl (who consequently
Has no reason for a name).
Lads are cheering, lasses swooning,
Eager all to ascertain
Where they’re going honeymooning,
And the details of the ’plane:
But today there’ll be no crashers,
As the sable flags unfurl,
Hailing those united smashers,
Hamza Bin and Atta-Girl.
by Marshall Cobb
“Dozens of goats broke loose and invaded a neighborhood in Boise, Idaho…”—CNN
You’ll seldom see a goat invasion,
But when it comes there’s devastation.
You’ll lose your lilacs, so long shrubs,
They’ll gnaw your roses down to nubs.
Don’t try to stop them, else the nanny
Is prone to butt you in the fanny.
And then the he-goat, known as Billy,
Will likely knock you willy-nilly.
On top of that, they’re very noisy.
Just ask the folks who live in Boise.
by David Hedges
When Rudy Giuliani served
As mayor of New York,
His high esteem was undeserved.
In sum, he was a dork.
He brought his mistress home one day
To live at Gracie Mansion,
Much to his second wife’s dismay.
He oversaw expansion
Of a half-baked war on crime.
You didn’t spit for fear
You’d wind up fined and doing time,
Or sneeze if you were queer.
When 9/11 hit, he seized
The podium and basked
In lavish praise. He acted pleased
No matter what was asked
Because it meant another chance
To hog the microphone,
And do his little song and dance
Before the facts were known.
This latter trick he’s maximized
As mouthpiece for The Don.
His viewers sit there mesmerized
By how he chatters on.
Integrity’s put through the mill
Or blasted into space,
But yet again we get our fill
Of Giuliani’s face.
by Phil Huffy
“American Airlines flier removed from flight despite buying separate seat for her cello.”—USA Today
There is always room for Jell-o,
advertisements used to say.
In the case of someone’s cello,
it turned out the other way.
While its ride most calmly ended
when the flight went outward bound,
a return trip was suspended
and it never left the ground.
For the promised seat was taken
and its passage then refused
while its owner stood, forsaken,
with her dignity abused.
Does the airline merit censure?
Did the pilot act alone?
I’ll find out next time I venture
to transport my bass trombone.
by S.O. Fasrus
“‘Friends’ of [Kim Kardashian and Kanye West] have allegedly told Star magazine that Kanye has given Kim a ‘twisted’ ultimatum—’plump her rump or don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’”—New Idea
Men don’t make passes
at girls with flat asses—
to be a real cutie
you need a big booty.
Dot Parker opined
thick specs were a no-no,
but nowadays, folks,
by Julia Griffin
“We do not hold preference for any particular style or topic—we simply seek the best poem we can find. Send us work that is blister, that is color, that strikes hot the urge to live and be. We strongly invite poets from all communities. You, & your words, are welcome here.”
—Frontier Poetry, announcing a New Poets competition
Is it blister? Is it color,
Striking hot the urge to be?
Or, by contrast, is it duller
Than a tepid mug of tea?
Is its color hot Venetian
With a dash of desert red,
Or, instead, like tofu quiche: an
Uninspiring shade of shed?
Is it blister? Is it splinter?
Does it master and suffuse?
Is it really more akin to
Some extremely minor bruise?
If it’s blister, ’twill be bliss to
Crown you best of singing birds!
If it’s not, forget it, mister.
You’re not welcome, nor your words.